


your love's like salt

by forochel



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've never shown us your art," Enjolras says. He sounds careful, like he's picking his way through a no man's land strewn with mines that even Grantaire has forgotten. </p><p>Set in some nebulous time, roughly in the modern era. In the aftermath of an (unwritten) fight, Enjolras goes to make his apologies. They come to some kind of an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your love's like salt

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to thelifemusical for looking over this. title from ben lee's aftertaste. it was going to be 'SURPLIZE HEGEL' but ... no. also sorry if I've fucked any art/philosophy-related stuff up.

"What —"

Grantaire turns around. His lip curls at the look on Enjolras's face. "Shocked, dear leader?"

"I ..." Enjolras is lost for words. Grantaire might almost be proud, to have brought him to this. Though he would rather have done so with his hands, his lips, his touch.

Grantaire turns back to his easel; turns his back on Enjolras, whose silence is awkward and painful. It all feels off-kilter. And though something inside Grantaire twists, for now Enjolras shall have the full truth of it, the full measure of that in Grantaire that is fundamentally opposed to his bright, shining, empty _hope_ — though Grantaire knows all of this in his aching bones, he cannot help but be pleased. _Let him see_ , the sour knot under his ribs whispers, _and he might understand_.

He lifts his brush, dips it into his palette and smears the canvas with another streak of dirty red, rusty stains. Bloodies the noble, hawk-like profile of the portrait with daubs of it. 

Then Enjolras draws level with him and puts a cool hand on his forearm. Grantaire pauses, and tilts his head to a side, considering. 

"You've never shown us your art," Enjolras says. He sounds careful, like he's picking his way through a no man's land strewn with mines that even Grantaire has forgotten. 

Grantaire shrugs. "No one's asked."

"Do you —" there's another pause, Enjolras discarding one question for another. "Have you exhibited? It's good. Not — "

"Not your ideal?" Grantaire supplies, the wryness back in his voice. and it's true: Grantaire would turn his hand to stirring passion and wrenching tears if he could, but his is for twisting what he sees to the grotesque; for all too earthly horrors filtered through abstraction when the fancy takes him. For enhancing with hyperrealism when wine fails him. There is a reason he has never tried his hand at capturing Enjolras in his paints. Few things remain sacred to Grantaire. 

Enjolras exhales slowly. He sidesteps the accusation (the statement), says lightly, "Hegel?" 

The forced levity makes Grantaire want to hit something. He switches paintbrushes instead, chooses a pure white for the highlighting. Enjolras's skin is warming against his, where his hand remains pressed to Grantaire's arm. 

"Did you come here to debate Aesthetics with me?" Grantaire asks.

"No," Enjolras answers immediately. "No, but." and he falters. 

It's uncharacteristic, but everything about this encounter — from Enjolras's first step into Grantaire's flat to this moment — has been uncharacteristic. 

"Say we agree that beauty is truth," Enjolras starts, and something about it soothes Grantaire. He has long known, that amongst certain audiences his paintings might be seen as beautiful (to say nothing of whether they'd be considered "art", but he has no time, no heart to spare for all sides of that debate). They have, however, never pretended to the sublime, which Grantaire would have thought Enjolras's preference. But his attention is caught again when Enjolras's fingers tighten against his flesh. "Say we do, is this then your truth, Grantaire?" 

_Ah_ , thinks Grantaire. _Now we have it_.

"What would you do," Grantaire answers like with like, "if I said it were?" 

Enjolras meets his eyes; his gaze is sad and already Grantaire's stomach is turning leaden. "I would ask to see all else that you have done, to better understand."

Grantaire blinks. His stomach ceases its transmutation; the knot under his ribs loosens. For one wild moment he wants to laugh. Enjolras must see it on his face, for his eyes narrow, though a faint smile graces his lips. He steps close, and must hear it when Grantaire's breath stutters. 

"Do you think so little of yourself that I should not seek to understand you?"

His involuntary glance to the side betrays him, and Enjolras raises his hand to cup Grantaire's cheek, the faint smile bowing downwards into a frown. It is unbearably intimate, like this, and Grantaire's mind is frozen. 

He hears himself say, "You've never, not before."

The fingers on his cheek flex. "No," Enjolras admits, "but I should have. I would make amends now, whilst I may. If I may."

"I do not wish to — to tarnish you if you should come to understand me," Grantaire tells him solemnly. "I would have you as you are, undarkened by such thoughts." 

Enjolras casts a glance at the painting, unfinished and previously forgotten. "I am not innocent to the darkness in things, Grantaire."

"No," Grantaire agrees, "but you turn your eyes to the light, whereas I am your opposite." 

"Do you not want to leaven the darkness when you see it?" Enjolras presses. “Why —"

Grantaire answers quickly, "Because more will only rush in after. It doesn't end, and —"

"Why do you continue to help us, then? Why do you come to us? Do not say it is only for my sake."

The weight of Enjolras's gaze on him is almost stifling. "Perhaps it seems less hopeless, with all of you. But," and Grantaire is seized with a sudden panic, "all this, it comes from what you want to understand. And I will not lose it."

Enjolras opens his mouth and closes it. They stand like that in the fading afternoon light, for what feels like an age. 

"I came to apologise," Enjolras says abruptly, his hand dropping from Grantaire's cheek. Grantaire feels the loss keenly. "For what I said of you yesterday evening. It was unfair and mostly untrue."

"Mostly untrue," Grantaire echoes, raising an eyebrow. 

Enjolras smiles humourlessly. "I hold to what I said about the drink, though maybe ... maybe I understand even that a little better now."

"Oh," says Grantaire, suddenly tired. "Good."

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, "I do not want to change you — only to understand, and to help. If you will let me."

"I'm not — god," Grantaire sighs, and drags a hand over his face. Likely he is also dragging paint over his face. "I don't want _help_ , Enjolras, not with my _art_. I have — look, I have had exhibitions, and I have one next month. Come if you like, there'll be canapes and non-alcoholic options."

Enjolras's lips twitch. "I'll have to check my schedule," he says automatically, "but I would like to." 

"Thanks," says Grantaire. He half-wishes he hadn't said anything, to make Enjolras stop touching him. But it had felt so important, felt like saying it was worth the exhaustion he's feeling now.

"And," Enjolras says, "Okay. I'm not — I'm not trying to take this," and he gestures at the half-finished portrait, "away from you, okay?"

He wouldn't, Grantaire knows. Not on purpose. "Okay," he says. He wonders if they're done. He hopes they are, but he doesn't want Enjolras to leave either. 

"Can I — can I watch you?" Enjolras asks, then, and Grantaire is surprised. He has enjoyed the spectacle of Enjolras's oratory, but has never expected to be watched in return. There is a warmth blossoming tentatively in his chest.

He looks out of the window; the sky is already turning orange. Soon it will be shot through with pink. 

"There isn’t much light left now," he says. "But yes — always."


End file.
